The Hunterian Museum is a fascinating collection of anatomical specimens,
surgical curiosities and graphic illustrations

Deep in the heart of London, hidden behind the respectable façade of the Royal College of Surgeons, is a modern day chamber of horrors. Not the ersatz, waxwork dummy kind so overused by the London Dungeon, Ripley’s Believe it or Not or similar establishments catering to our love of gore and freakery. No – this is the real deal, housed in a towering, glittering crystal gallery; eight floor-to-ceiling glass cases containing over 3,000 anatomical specimens in jars. From a crocodile foetus still attached to the egg by its umbilical cord, to the human reproductive organs, to the snakelike coil of a man’s large intestine. These are from real animals and real people and it is seriously shocking.

Glass cases contain over 3,000 anatomical specimens in jars

But it is also wonderfully instructive, respectful and a testament to the determination and skill of one man. John Hunter multitasked as a surgeon, dentist and vet in the eighteenth century – an era when undergoing an operation was marginally less safe than playing a game of Russian roulette. Hunter knew that crucial to improving survival rates was a better understanding of anatomy. He was renowned for his dissections, a spectator sport back then, and he collected specimens as he went along, illustrating both healthy and diseased parts of the body. In his lifetime it was the largest collection of specimens in Europe, numbering over 14,000. His only rival in the body-parts-in-jars stakes was his brother William, a surgeon in Glasgow. They fell out over which of them had discovered the circulation of the placenta and remained estranged for the rest of their lives.

To wander through the Hunterian museum is to marvel at its founder’s thirst for knowledge and the intricacy and beauty of both human and animal anatomy. It’s not for the squeamish but it is awe inspiring. Take the cockerel’s head with a human tooth embedded in its skull, an early attempt at transplantation. The human spine and pelvis, grotesquely twisted by scoliosis; the sections of bone sprouting cancerous growths like cauliflowers; the skulls corroded into delicate lacework by venereal disease and most heart-stopping of all, the section of a child’s face – so painstakingly preserved you can see each eyelash lying in a sweep against his cheek.

Hunter preserved most of the specimens himself, storing them in glass jars, suspended on threads to stop them sinking to the bottom. Most were preserved in alcohol, the tops sealed with layers of pig’s bladder, tin and lead and then painted over with pitch.

Beyond the crystal gallery there are fascinating archives including the nineteenth century diary of Joshua Naples, a notorious grave robber or ‘resurrectionist’ and engravings for the first edition of Gray’s Anatomy. Wince at the collection of surgical instruments: amputation sets to make your eyes water, no end of saws, and – my favourite – a silver prosthetic nose attached to a pair of glasses like a Marx Brothers joke set. The guidebook explains that it belonged to a woman of the 19th century who lost her nose because of syphilis. On remarrying she abandoned it, declaring her new husband preferred her without it.

The Hunterian’s painting collection reveals how the Great War forced surgeons to pioneer new techniques. The injuries caused by flying shrapnel, shelling and bullet wounds presented new challenges, particularly when the injuries were to the face. Surgery was about pulling the edges of a wound together and sewing it up. That didn’t work with men with gaping, bloody holes where their noses or cheeks or jaws used to be. Plastic surgeon Harold Gillies developed the use of skin grafts from patients’ own tissue to try to make repairs and rebuild the face where possible. He realised that the re-creation of his patients’ looks was as important as restoring their physical function. Alongside him was Henry Tonks, a qualified surgeon but also an accomplished artist who drew detailed plans of each operation, what went where, the line of the stitches and the precise placing of a graft — like a DIY manual of plastic surgery. And he made pastel sketches of the men before surgery and after.

They are the most remarkable and moving portraits. A soldier looks out of the picture, with a frank, direct stare. Private Charles Deeks was only 25 when an explosion obliterated much of his cheek and mouth. In his pre-op portrait, the top half of his regular features are handsome, his gaze steady, his hair neatly brushed. But his face is riven below the line of his top lip, a red, gaping gash where his mouth and lower jaw used to be. Look again into his eyes and you realise Deeks is gripped by fear. At a time when images of facially disfigured veterans were taboo (bad for national morale), these pictures were revolutionary. I was told a heartbreaking detail; that one of the most common jobs for facially wounded veterans of the first world war was that of cinema projectionist where they were hidden from view, alone in the dark.

The Hunterian now displays these images, just a few at a time, as they are very fragile. Step in to this most extraordinary of museums and for a moment you can wonder at the complex mystery of the physical machinery inside us and at the artistry of the pioneers who learnt how to take it apart and put it all back together again.

Essentials

The Hunterian Museum, Royal College of Surgeons, 35-43 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London WC2 (020 7869 6560; hunterianmuseum.org) is open Tuesday to Saturday from 10am to 5pm; admission is free.

To mark the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War, the Hunterian Museum is staging the exhibition “War, Art and Surgery” from October 14 2014 to February 14 2015, in which visitors can explore the relationship between war and surgery, past and present. There will be contemporary reportage artwork by Julia Midgley representing recently wounded soldiers in recovery, as well as a display of all 72 of the College’s pastels of wounded servicemen by surgeon-artist Henry Tonks.